


Pet Names and Pet Shames

by allmilhouse



Category: Oh Hello - Kroll & Mulaney
Genre: Hand Jobs, Light breathplay, M/M, Power Dynamics, Unhealthy Relationships, but like it's the only way it works for them, lowkey foot stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmilhouse/pseuds/allmilhouse
Summary: The first few times George calls Gil sweetheart, and why he doesn't want to make a habit out of it
Relationships: Gil Faizon/George St. Geegland
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	Pet Names and Pet Shames

**Author's Note:**

> I was hoping to have this done by the time the p'dcast ended but uhhh [inaudible mumbling]

The first time he called Gil _sweetheart_ was over the phone, when Gil was pretending to be Inertia. It had slipped out unintentionally, especially since George never called his wife sweetheart. But Gil just giggled and called him _dorling_ and provided him a solid enough alibi that he was back on the streets by dinnertime. 

___

The second time he called Gil _sweetheart_ was at dinner. They met at their usual diner, Gil vibrating with excitement and amphetamines. 

“How did it go?”

George glared at him. “I’m free, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but what did they say?” Gil pressed, always eager to hear feedback. “Did I sound like a woman who was planning to throw herself down the stairs?”

“Jesus- it was an _accident_ , Gil. She tripped on that fucking rug- no never mind, it’s done with.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, before looking back up at Gil’s broad, eager face. “You did good though. If I ever need another wife, you’ll be the first one I call, sweetheart.” 

Gil beams, his smile sincere if a little shaky. It’s not a pleasant smile, if anything it’s more of a forced grimace. He’s never happier than when he does well at acting, or when he’s eating cookies, but George feels a tightening in his chest seeing Gil in a good mood. He’s on the verge of saying something, something mean-spirited to undercut this high, but then the waitress returns to refill their gray coffee, and the moment is gone. Gil brings up an audition he’s preparing for, a _Music Man_ revival where Harold Hill’s a serial flasher called _Shidroopy_ , and they spend the rest of the evening debating the greatest pervert roles of the theater. 

___

The hundredth time he called Gil _sweetheart_ was a few years later, in their beloved apartment. They’d been roommates for about a decade now, and they were both between marriages again. Gil’s divorce was still recent enough to sting a little, and he’d been hanging out at the park most nights, looking for new raccoons to take his mind off of things. 

George looked up from his typewriter, watching Gil get ready to go out. “Hey, why don’t you stay in tonight?” 

He holds up a little bag of shrooms he picked up earlier, and watches Gil’s eyes widen in interest. Smirking as if he’d just finished a tuna prank, George tosses Gil the bag before heading over to rummage through their record collection, looking for the right Steely Dan album to be their soundtrack for the evening. 

Eventually they wound up sitting on the kitchen floor across from one another, leaning against the cabinets. George took a moment to study his best friend, really observe him this time. 

He had a slight paunch, his stomach growing softer as he reached his mid-thirties. Creases around his eyes were becoming noticeable, and there was a hint of gray creeping into his stubble. Everything about him, from the boneless slump of his poor posture against the linoleum floor to his adenoidal voice yoideling along to the fading song drifting in from the living room, was deeply unattractive. 

And yet. 

Gil’s eyes are closed as he hums along to one of the many, _many_ instrumental breaks, and George impulsively stretches his leg out, moving his foot along Gil’s prone leg. He gets up to Gil’s knee before those eyes fly open, looking at George in confusion. 

He hesitates only a second before plunging on, his toes nudging up further along the olive green corduroys until he’s prodding at Gil’s crotch. He tells himself that if Gil pushes him away then he can always blame this on the drugs, or writer’s block, or some third thing, but then Gil’s leaning into him, arching up into the ball of George’s foot, and all of his made-up excuses fade away. 

He flexes, curling his toes around the fly, where Gil has a bit of his shirt caught. He slides the fabric between his toes, up and down, while grinding his heel against the growing bulge. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” he says more than asks, growing cocky now that he knows Gil is into it. “Yeah, you do. I knew you’d be into weird shit, fucking foot fetishist.” 

Gil thrusts again in reply, trying vainly to get any sort of friction against George’s foot. “Georgie, I need...” 

But George isn’t merciful, instead feeling that comforting, controlling anger building up inside. “What do you need? You have to say it.”

“You, I need you. Please touch me.” His voice sounds scratchy and pathetic, and it stirs the rising emotion in him even more. 

He leans forward, crawling over to his slouching roommate. On his knees he towers over Gil, and the implications of that get him growing hard as well. But this is about Gil, he reminds himself as he reaches down, fingers fumbling with the zipper on his heavy corduroys. 

His fingers close around Gil’s dick, slightly too dry for comfort. A cursory glance towards the counter reveals nothing suitable for lubricant- just cans of tuna, and whisky in a stolen Zabar’s mug. So he spits in his hands and hopes for the best. Gil doesn’t seem to mind though, having closed his eyes again. He hums in appreciation, and again George studies him, this time up close. 

He sees the patches of dry skin, his fingers brushing past as they trail down to where neck folds meet wiry chest hair. His thumb stretches the breadth of his neck, and it’s easy to apply pressure, just to flex slightly and push Gil’s big ugly fucking head against the cabinet door. Gil rasps, a grotesque, hoarse wheezing, but it’s music to George’s ears. He turns to face him, those big blue eyes looking confused, that slack jawed face looking scared. He’s cowering now, shivering slightly under George’s restrictive hands, apprehensive but definitely into it.

Gil reaches out to reciprocate, his hand fumbling at the front of George’s corduroys. He slaps it away, sneering. “No, you don’t get to.” 

“Georgie, I want to.” His voice is rough, but the need is there. It’s something George can’t understand, and it frustrates him, not knowing what Gil is playing at. Cruelty, rage, power over his dimwitted friend- that’s what got him off. That, and plane crashes. But the fondness in Gil’s voice got him rock hard, and he didn’t know what to make of it. It was frustrating and confusing and it wasn’t his fault if he leaned into it. 

He squeezes harder, taking out all his anger on Gil, and Gil takes it, gasping more but fully onboard. He tries again, his clumsy fingers again brushing the front of George’s slacks. He thinks about fighting it off again, but a deeper, messier need takes over and he snarls, dropping his hand from Gil’s throat and tearing open his fly, eager to get Gil working as hard as he was. His right hand hadn’t left Gil’s dick, only tightening and speeding up as they went on. 

Gil’s fingers are too slow at first, too hesitant, and he’s tempted to knock his hand back again, and take over. Show him how to really jerk off a guy until he’s panting and writhing underneath you. Instead he leans closer, his free arm bracing against the counter until he’s looming over Gil, leaning on him, firmly ensconcing him against the scuffed cabinet door. 

He feels Gil’s muffled cries against his heavy wool sweater, feels him tighten and spasm in his hand. The anger burns in him again, furious that Gil would come so fast from a shitty kitchen floor handjob. He pulls back in disgust but doesn’t get far. Gil’s fist bunches in his sweater, keeping him close, while his other hand slicks up in his own mess before returning to George’s cock with a vengeance. 

It’s too close, too hot, his knees are killing him, but fuck is it good. Until Gil looks up at him again, their eyes meeting and that’s what pushes him over the edge, spilling into Gil’s hand, Gil’s name spilling from his lips.

He collapses to the floor, spent. “Is this what you fuckin’ wanted to happen, sweetheart?” he manages between breaths. He looks over at Gil, too stupid to be avoiding his gaze. 

“I, I thought maybe we could get a slice after, but yeah, pretty much.” He shrugs, charming, he’s sure, and George nods, suddenly once again at peace with the world and his and Gil’s place in it.

“Yeah, I could do a slice.”

It takes about fifteen minutes for them to upright again, leaning heavily on the countertops and brushing dust and cereal crumbs from their clothes. Gil still has that half-hopeful, half-hesitant look, and George frowns, just wishing he’d spit it out. 

“Hey, hey George? Maybe next time, we could do this in a bed? It’s just, the floor always hurts my back. And you know how bad my lumbago flares up after.”

He’s sad. He’s a pathetic sack of shit. And he’s all his. George shakes his head, but can’t shake the fond smile creeping up. “Yeah, sure thing, sweetheart.”


End file.
